


If on a winter's night a Cardassian

by flyingghoti



Category: Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore | If on a Winter's Night a Traveller - Italo Calvino, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Culture, Especially the lies, F/F, F/M, M/M, More tags TK as the plot unfolds, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s06e02 Rocks and Shoals, Shamelessly cribbing off Calvino's framing story, Unreliable Narrator, You don't need to have read Calvino (but should consider doing so)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingghoti/pseuds/flyingghoti
Summary: You are about to start reading Elim Garak's intelligence file... but, when you're a character in a story inspired by Italo Calvino'sIf on a winter's night a traveler, reading a file is never a simple task.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Stefan DeSeve, Elim Garak & Tasha Yar, Elim Garak/Palandine, Elim Garak/Tora Ziyal, Il Lettore/Ludmilla | Ludmilla/The Reader, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

You are about to begin reading Elim Garak’s intelligence file. You recognize the name, though perhaps most people might not; history has placed him in a footnote, “Damar and Kira stormed the Dominion compound to end the war and save Cardassia, and also Garak was there.” But you have been an intelligence analyst for long enough to know that people in your line of work always end up in the footnotes, or absent from the books entirely - at least, as long as things go right. Garak would surely have been happier there than in bold print in the headlines, crowned in glory: _Slayer of the Last Weyoun, Hero of the Cardassian Republic_. People who wanted those things didn't last very long in the Obsidian Order.

You could ask him, of course - he’s still very much alive, by all accounts, living a quiet life on Cardassia Prime. But that shouldn’t be necessary. You are, after all, a seasoned analyst, trained to vivisect a person’s psyche through the scattered miscellany of reports collected by operatives; you have everything you need to understand the man on the PADD in front of you. Enough people have interviewed and debriefed Garak over the years that there will be plenty to work with. And in any case, your job is not actually to understand Elim Garak, or anyone else for that matter, at least not for the purposes of this particular assignment. No, your job today is merely to prepare a report on the status of the intelligence and secret police agencies of the Cardassian Empire in the last few decades of its existence. This largely unnecessary report will go on to occupy a minuscule sector of the thick and daunting file being prepared by the vast team of bureaucrats assessing the Cardassian Republic’s application for Federation membership. Your report will be one of hundreds, maybe thousands, detailing every aspect of the transition from fascism to democracy to either assuage or confirm the fears of the various admirals and politicians that this glorious new Fourth Republic may be as short-lived as its predecessors.

That said, the actual work of compiling the report should be easy enough, and should leave you time for the more interesting task of getting into the head of a figure who has always fascinated you. It’s not that you expect anything in particular from the file. You’re the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of _anything_. There are plenty, younger or less young, who live in the expectation that the insight gleaned from _this_ file, _this_ report, _this_ archive will be the one that changes the course of galactic history. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion you have reached, in your personal life and in general matters, even on the scale of a galaxy. But _still_ , the prospect of exploring Garak’s file is intriguing to you, even as you prepare yourself for the most likely outcome, which is - in your experience - disappointment.

So: relax. Get comfortable. Your office chair is a bit stiff; turn down the gravity a bit. Do you have everything you need? Raktajino close at hand? Ah, right, you’ve switched to red leaf tea. Appropriate, given the subject matter, and reducing your caffeine intake is probably a good idea. You get irritable sometimes when you’ve had a second raktajino, and that’s not the head space you want to take into this file, now is it? Adjust the lights a bit; not so low you get sleepy, but not so high you get antsy. You don’t want to be hunched over a monitor, so go ahead and transfer the file onto your favorite PADD, the one with the comfortable hand grip.

You hold it for a moment, feeling the well-balanced weight in your hand. There are lighter PADD designs out there, but you like the slight heft. It feels more like reading a printed book, like the familiar weight of the copy of Anslem your girlfriend at the Academy gave you, its margins full of her handwritten notes and doodles. There are no doodles in the margins of this intelligence file, sadly, but as best you can, given the constraints of your office, you unconsciously replicate the experience of a lazy freshman morning curled up naked with Ana in your dorm bed, each of you reading a different book in companionable silence. And so, chasing that long-ago high without even realizing it, you lean back, take a sip of the tea, and begin to read the first interview in the file, all the while telling yourself it’s likely to be a dry and disappointing chore.


	2. File G21329

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interview conducted at Starfleet Intelligence field office, Starbase 375, stardate 51124.3. Subject is Elim Garak, Cardassian male, age 47 Terran years (84 Cardassian years), understood to be a former Obsidian Order operative who has voluntarily agreed to assist the war effort by providing information on Cardassian deployments, tactics, politics, and society. Interviewer is LCDR T'Panok, Starfleet Intelligence. All documents produced in this interview to be classified secret and copied to Admirals Sitak, Coburn, and Ross.
> 
> This will be my first interview with subject. Purpose of initial interview: establish subject’s motives for assisting Starfleet Intelligence in order to determine his reliability as a source. Subject has been cleared by medical after treatment for some minor injuries sustained in a crash and during capture by Jem’Hadar troops (see attached after-action reports from CPT Benjamin Sisko and CDT Nog), and presently appears in good spirits.

**T’Panok**

Please, Mr Garak, make yourself comfortable. I’m informed you enjoy red leaf tea. Do you require any food?

**Garak**

How very thoughtful, Commander. I did in fact just have a very pleasant lunch in the starbase cafeteria. Several days aboard a Klingon ship left me with quite an appetite, and ever since we were forced to evacuate Deep Space Nine, Dr Bashir and I have had few chances to sit down together for a quiet lunch.

**T’Panok**

For the record, you are referring to Lieutenant Julian Bashir, MD, formerly chief medical officer of Deep Space Nine, currently assigned to the USS _Defiant_.

_Note: personnel dossier attached._

**Garak**

Correct.

**T’Panok**

You’ve been acquainted with Dr Bashir for some time.

**Garak**

We met shortly after his arrival on Deep Space Nine.

**T’Panok**

Which was on stardate 46379?

**Garak**

You have the PADD, Commander; I’ll have to take your word for it.

**T’Panok**

Why did you volunteer to assist Starfleet Intelligence?

**Garak**

Well, Commander, I would have to say one motivating factor was that I recently learned that my motherland was occupied by a ruthless militaristic power bent on conquest.

**T’Panok**

There are some who might say that your motherland _was_ a ruthless militaristic power bent on conquest. And yet you served that government for decades.

**Garak**

Ah, but the uniforms were so much more elegant.

_Note: I believe this to have been an attempt at humor._

**T’Panok**

Did you participate in the occupation of Bajor?

**Garak**

Didn’t we all?

**T’Panok**

I can assure you that I did not.

**Garak**

Ah, yes, I forgot; the Federation worked _diligently_ to free the Bajoran people. I believe the Federation President himself sent a _very_ strongly worded letter.

**T’Panok**

As I’m sure you are aware, the Federation was constitutionally required to avoid direct interference in the matter.

**Garak**

Just as the Cardassian Empire was constitutionally required to expand its borders. We must all follow the laws of our respective nations, must we not?

**T’Panok**

You are violating Cardassian law by speaking to me now.

**Garak**

No, Commander, I’m violating _Dominion_ law by speaking to you, and I can assure you I have no compunctions about that.

**T’Panok**

Many observers would say that there is no substantial difference between the Cardassian Empire as an independent state and the Cardassian Empire as a member of the Dominion. All reports indicate that very little has in fact changed on Cardassia Prime. Cardassia’s military and civil institutions apparently meshed very smoothly with those of the Dominion.

**Garak**

And I’m sure you can understand how dismayed I was when I realized that.

**T’Panok**

I’m not sure I can. You surely could have been under no illusions about the nature of the government you served for so long.

**Garak**

It’s amazing what illusions one can be under when one tries.

**T’Panok**

Despite the recommendations of those who have known you on Deep Space Nine, you must understand that your history makes it difficult for Starfleet Intelligence to consider you a reliable source.

**Garak**

I would be genuinely insulted if they did.

**T’Panok**

Was there anything else which motivated you to volunteer? A personal relationship, perhaps?

**Garak**

Ah, a very interesting supposition. Please, elaborate.

**T’Panok**

In my experience, many behaviors of emotional species can be best understood as a manifestation of either love or spite.

**Garak**

I see! You believe I am either motivated by my hatred for Dukat or by my affection for… whom were you suggesting as a paramour, if I may ask?

**T’Panok**

You have been linked romantically to both Tora Ziyal and Julian Bashir in recent years.

**Garak**

“Linked romantically.” What an interesting phrase.

**T’Panok**

Emotional vocabulary isn’t my strong suit. If you have terminology you’d prefer, I’d be happy to use it.

**Garak**

Ziyal is a child. I was “linked romantically” with her _grandfather_.

**T’Panok**

Subsequently executed based on the intelligence you gathered from him, as I understand.

**Garak**

And yet she still sees something valuable within me. I can’t tell if that is more evidence of childish naïveté, or perhaps evidence that she’s wiser than I am. In either case, I would characterize that relationship as besotted on her end and befuddled on mine.

**T’Panok**

But you have been sexually intimate?

**Garak**

No.

**T’Panok**

You have been away from your people for many years now, and by all accounts Ms Tora is interested. And, based on what I know of Gul Dukat, pursuing a sexual relationship with his daughter would be perhaps the ultimate vengeance for his part in your exile. She is younger than you, yes, but larger age gaps are not uncommon in Cardassian relationships. Why miss the opportunity to experience sexual congress with someone at least partially of your species and while also angering your greatest rival?

**Garak**

I considered the matter. But it didn’t seem fair to her.

**T’Panok**

Interesting. I think I actually believe you, Mr Garak. Then your lack of physical intimacy is actually evidence of emotional intimacy.

**Garak**

Commander T’Panok, I must commend you. That’s a most unexpected insight into the Cardassian psyche, coming from a Vulcan.

**T’Panok**

Even emotions can be analyzed logically, Mr Garak. Tell me about Dr Bashir.

**Garak**

For the good doctor, I am a fantasy made flesh. He came to Deep Space Nine looking for a romantic and compelling adventure out of a storybook, and within his first week he found an enigmatic exiled tailor with a mysterious past.

**T’Panok**

And the attraction for you?

**Garak**

My good Commander, I know you’re a Vulcan, but… did they leave a photo out of his dossier? And, of course, it’s always pleasant to be found compelling.

**T’Panok**

That explains the beginning of your relationship, but surely Dr Bashir has found the events of his own life over the past few years compelling enough to satiate any desire for adventure.

**Garak**

I do keep waiting for him to realize that.

**T’Panok**

You two _are_ sexually intimate, I take it?

**Garak**

Have you had your first _pon farr_ yet, Commander? It’s not always easy to guess a Vulcan’s age.

**T’Panok**

As I’m sure you’re aware, that is not a topic that Vulcans discuss with outsiders. Are you attempting to… what is the word... “rattle” me? And if so, for what purpose?

**Garak**

Forgive me, Commander. One must practice a skill to keep it honed, and there’s nothing quite so enjoyable as a rattled Vulcan. In any case, if and when you are next seeking a mate, I would highly recommend finding one who was genetically engineered.

**T’Panok**

I find it hard to imagine how Dr Bashir’s relatively modest physical enhancements would translate to the act of coitus.

**Garak**

What I find hard to imagine, given that Dr Bashir has been “linked romantically” with most of the station, is that I was the only one to figure it out before it became public knowledge.

_Note: Subject provided further details which have been expurgated from this transcript in the interests of taste. Interviewer does not believe they could be considered salient, except perhaps to researchers of kinesiology._

**T’Panok**

You speak of him with a strange mixture of fondness and… something which borders on contempt.

**Garak**

On the contrary, I have nothing but respect for the good doctor. Any contempt you’re noticing is, I assure you, entirely self-directed.

**T’Panok**

I notice I haven’t heard you call him Julian. It’s my understanding that, on Cardassia, lovers use the personal name for one another except when their relationship is clandestine or taboo. Indeed, in Cardassian poetry of the First Republic, the use of the family name for a lover is frequently used to imply an emotional bond made _stronger_ by the disapproval of others.

**Garak**

I must confess, Commander, that in all my years as an operative, I never considered literary analysis as an interrogation technique. This is a truly novel experience.

**T’Panok**

So then, I must ask… are you in love with Dr Bashir? And is your choice to provide intelligence on the government you so loyally served because of him?

**G̷̲̉a̶̛̟͠r̶̡͔͊a̸͊̊͜k̴̪͊͌**

H̷̺͂o̷̖̽ẅ̴͓́ ̸̩͒v̷̜̐ĕ̶̢r̷̜͌y̸̡͘ t̶h̴o̴u̴g̴h̶t̴f̸ul, Commander. I did in fact just have a very pleasant lunch in the starbase cafeteria. Several days aboard a Klingon ship left me with quite an appetite, and ever since we were forced to evacuate Deep Space Nine, Dr Bashir and I have had few chances to sit down together for a quiet lunch.

**T’Panok**

For the record, you are referring to Lieutenant Julian Bashir, MD, formerly chief medical officer of Deep Space Nine, currently assigned to the USS _Defiant_.

_Note: personnel dossier attached._

**Garak**

Correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yes, it's supposed to do that. Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

You pause, staring at the screen. The text is repeating. Perhaps it’s just a problem with the information retrieval net; it’s not entirely unheard of for it to serve the same data sector twice. You scroll down, skimming through the text again, until you get to T’Panok’s final question: are you in love with Dr Bashir? You, of course, know none of the people involved directly - you’d never have even heard of Bashir if Ana hadn’t taken that seminar on the ethics of genetic manipulation at the Academy and made you help her study - and yet you’re surprised to learn you’ve come to find yourself very invested in the question.

And yet here it is, instead of Garak’s answer: _how very thoughtful, I just had lunch!_ What kind of circus are you working in here? This is supposed to be Starfleet Intelligence! Somehow the retrieval net is just serving you the same part of the interview over and over… or, worse, the file itself is corrupted. You try loading it on a different PADD, and then on your monitor, but every time, the same result: Garak answering T’Panok’s question about his deepest motivations... by saying he isn’t hungry.

Admittedly, this particular interview didn’t seem to have much to say about the status of the intelligence and secret police agencies of the Cardassian Empire in the last few decades of its existence, and the appropriate course of action would be to flag the system error and move on to the next document. But you’re not going to do that, are you? Right when it was just getting interesting? Maybe T’Panok could have managed that, with her Vulcan stoicism, but you’re not a Vulcan, and sometimes you don’t do the most logical thing.

Still, you should compose yourself a bit before you call Information Services. You’re noticeably agitated, and it never pays to be rude to an NCO, after all. You know you are somewhat impulsive, but you’ve learned to compose yourself. Take a deep breath. Have you tried plexing? It’s a Betazoid relaxation technique. Ah, yes, that’s the spot, right behind the jaw. Maybe get a fresh cup of tea from the replicator; yours has gone cold. There, feeling a bit better? Go ahead then; make the call.

What do you _mean_ , it’s three in the morning in Lagos? Whose brilliant idea was it to locate Information Services in Lagos? Don’t they know that you’re _not_ in Lagos, and you need to find out _right now_ whether, fifteen years ago, a background player in the Dominion War admitted whether he was in love with a genetically enhanced doctor? You _could_ put in an after-hours request and have it serviced by the night shift… but they’re a small and overworked crew and you’d have to justify to your CO why you demanded an immediate turnaround on this particular file. Nothing else to be done; you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Almost time to go home anyway.

You spend most of the restless night awake; your thoughts keep going around in circles, like a corrupted file. When you sleep, even your dreams are circular, all of them orbiting the same memory: that dorm room, that Sunday morning, those sunbeams marching lazily across your bed, those doodles in the margins of the “Ana-tated” _Anslem_ , that warm, sleepy body curled up next to yours. You haven’t thought this much about her in _years_. Are you really so lonely that simply reading the transcript of one single interview with a potentially-lovelorn Cardassian spy should bring all these memories flooding back from seven long years ago? Well, yes, of course you are, but it’s still quite rude of your brain to _remind_ you.

The next day, as soon as you have a free moment, you call up Information Services, waving the PADD, pointing at the screen as though they should be able to read it over holocommunicator, as if that alone were enough to make clear the general disarray. You have forgotten your plexing. “Do you see?” you say, and “intolerable,” and also “can’t do my job” - the last of which is not, strictly speaking, accurate.

The technician keeps their composure. “You too? We’ve had several complaints today. Just a few minutes ago we received a message from Memory Alpha. ‘Archive server 1XJ15, storing documents related to the Dominion War and categorized as of minor importance, has experienced a serious indexing failure.’ Apparently you asked for file G21329, a personal dossier on one Elim Garak, and received file G24282, an interview conducted by Lieutenant Commander T’Panok on stardate 51124. So it doesn’t actually have anything to do with us at Information Services - we’re just trying to do our jobs and not get yelled at by officers from half the quadrant. But don’t worry - I’ve already managed to locate file G21329 and can send it over to you right away.”

Hold on a minute. Concentrate. Take all the information that has poured over you and put it all in order. File G24282. The file you began reading with such involvement wasn’t the file you thought, G21329, but was instead a different file called G24282. That’s the file you’re now so anxious to procure. Don’t let them fool you. Explain clearly the situation. “No, actually I don’t give a damn about G21329. It’s G24282 that I started and that’s the one I need to continue my work. Do you have G24282?”

“If that’s what you prefer. It’s funny, just a few minutes ago another officer called to ask for that very same file, so I have it right here. I’ll initiate a secure transfer now.”

“But will this file be defective?”

“Listen. At this point I won’t swear to anything. If Memory Alpha is fallible, then for all I know the capital of the Federation is on Qo’noS. I’ll tell you exactly what I told that other officer: if there’s another problem, call us and we’ll look into it further. I can’t do more than that.”

“This other officer - can I have their name? Not, of course, that I don’t have every faith in Information Services...”

“Yes, you’re authorized for that information. Here you are.”

The name, picture, and directory information appear on your screen. Huge, swift eyes, which for just a moment make you think yet again about Ana, even though Ana certainly didn’t have blue skin or antennae peeking out from a richly waved haze of white hair.

And so the Other Analyst makes her appearance in this story, Analyst, and now you have a plan. If, by any chance, this new file G24282 isn’t complete, you will call the Other Analyst and strike up a conversation. Perhaps she, too, has developed a more than professional interest in this interview, and the two of you could discuss your insights into the character of the mysterious Mr Garak as you worked together to solve the problem.

And would that be such a bad thing? You end the call content - you, who thought that the period when you could still expect something from life had ended. You are bearing with you two different expectations, and both promise different hopes: the expectation of finishing the interview - of a reading experience you are impatient to resume - and, failing that, the expectation contained in that directory entry - of a chance to strike up a casual conversation with this unknown coworker with such good eyes and discerning taste in intelligence files. Perhaps you could contact her _anyway_ , even if the file works, to discuss the interview and suggest some professional collaboration given the apparent overlap in your work. A meeting over lunch, perhaps.

You replicate a new cup of red leaf tea and sink back in your chair again, transferring file G24282 to your PADD, but as much as you try to sink into that same solitary reverie as yesterday, you are intensely aware that, somewhere out there, that Other Analyst is just as curious as you are about the relationship between Mr Garak and Dr Bashir, that somewhere out there she is _at this very moment_ opening the file herself. And then…

Then, from the very first paragraph, you realize that the file you are holding has nothing to do with the one you read yesterday.


	4. File G24282

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover letter and attached sample document from the notes of LT Telnorri, PhD, Mr Garak's former counselor. Protected medical information generated under court order, requested under 24 U.F.C. § 552a and added to file. Summary to be classified secret and copied to Admirals Sitak, Coburn, and Ross.

Lieutenant Commander T’Panok:

As per your orders issued on stardate 51123, I hereby transfer to you my files on Elim Garak, collected while Mr Garak was undergoing six months of court-ordered counseling under my supervision after attempting to use the USS Defiant to commit a genocide against the Founders of the Dominion. Mr Garak was made aware from our first session that, given the nature of the offense and his personal history, my notes could legally be requested by Starfleet for review, and that I would be obliged to provide them if they were. At that time I informed him, as I would any patient, that anything he wanted kept out of the official notes would be redacted, provided it didn’t interfere with my responsibilities as a mandatory reporter. He declined, saying that he was looking forward to providing Starfleet Intelligence with “some entertainment at [his] expense.”

Mr Garak was, to say the least, a challenging patient. I have been acquainted with him for long enough that this did not come as a particular surprise. He is deeply antagonistic towards counseling, and indeed towards the very idea that a justice system should prize rehabilitation over vengeance. When reminded that a similar crime on a Cardassian ship would surely have led to immediate execution, he expressed that such a sentence would have had “some advantages” over our counseling sessions. Additionally, I do not trust any information within these notes to have any particular resemblance to truth. I would call Mr Garak a pathological liar, but I believe that would be inaccurate; a pathological liar lies without reason based on some internal compulsion... but Mr Garak, as best I can determine, lies recreationally. As a sample, I have attached a document Mr Garak wrote under my supervision, which I believe will give some sense of the reliability of the other information in these notes.

As I said in my report dated stardate 49989, in which I suggested supervised release, I do not believe that Mr Garak presents an immediate danger to himself or others. He has not, however, shown remorse for his actions beyond a personal apology to Captain Sisko, and would surely do the same again if the means presented themselves. On the other hand, it would have been cruel and unproductive to imprison him indefinitely. As perverse as it may seem, his total unreformability made continuing to hold him in a cell pointless. I had no good solution to that conundrum at the time, and have not come up with one in the intervening years, beyond the one I provided Captain Sisko at the time: please don’t give him any opportunities to commit a genocide.

Yours, and good luck,

Lt. Telnorri  
Counselor, Deep Space Nine

* * *

_On stardate 50392, I suggested that Captain Sisko bring Mr Garak to an upcoming conference on Bajor discussing the Occupation, as I thought participating might help him more directly confront that chapter of Cardassian history - as well as his_ personal _history. At this point, several months into treatment, I had only just convinced him to admit he’d ever even visited Bajor before, and asked him to write a brief narrative of a single memory he had from that planet - be it good, bad, or neutral. This was what he supplied. —Telnorri_

Well, Dr Telnorri, it seems I have you to thank for my upcoming journey off the station. I might even find myself missing you for the eighteen glorious hours of freedom the captain has scheduled for me. Or perhaps freedom is too strong a word, as it hasn’t missed my notice that Constable Odo will be joining us for the outing. Nevertheless, I look forward to it, and I greatly appreciate the chance to see a sky, however briefly, and however unnaturally _blue_ it may be. I’ve been invited to offer a Cardassian perspective on the Occupation, and will show my appreciation for the opportunity by doing so in the most insufferable manner possible. This will please my Bajoran hosts, who would find it extremely frustrating if I were so gauche as to agree with them on anything at all, and should make the conference a much more lively affair for all the attendees. Perhaps I can bring you back a recording; I know how much Tellarites enjoy a good argument. _[This is one of several barbs directed towards me peppered throughout the document. I am half-Tellarite, but was raised by my Bajoran father and have no particular interest in Tellarite professional debate. He determined this about me by the end of our second meeting and attempted to waste the first few minutes of every subsequent session by filling me in on the progress of the Gaavik Shouters. —T]_

You’ve asked me to describe a memory I have of Bajor, but, in truth, I have little memory of the place. It is an unremarkable and unattractive little planet, rather like Earth. It’s hard to even recall a single notable event that occurred to me there… although I suppose there was the time, about seventeen years ago, when I was given what the Bajorans refer to as an “Orb experience” by Opaka Kamil, who was their religious leader at the time.

I had come to Bajor for their fabrics, which had become quite fashionable on Cardassia Prime - during the Occupation, as I’m sure you know, the Bajoran textile industry had a historic boom. As I recall, I was in the marketplace of Dahkur City, and had just finished making a deal with a Bajoran merchant - who charged me a simply _exorbitant_ sum for eight pates of quite beautiful Rakanthan boton. Just as I was leaving, Opaka walked in, accompanied by a swarm of vedeks or ranjens or what have you. She was quite lovely in her prime, dressed opulently from head to toe in what my keen eye identified as Triaxian silk, bedecked with jewels yet unbowed by their considerable weight. _[In case it wasn’t obvious, here he is openly telegraphing that he is lying. By 2356, Dahkur City had been leveled in a campaign of reprisals against the Resistance fighters in that province and what decent soil remained in Rakantha Province was being used for subsistence farming. And the idea of a Bajoran merchant charging a Cardassian an “exorbitant sum” is as transparently absurd as the idea that the Kai could have safely walked the streets, much less that she carried so much as a Spican flame gem on her person. —T]_

She greeted me cordially, grasping my ear in that peculiar Bajoran manner, and when she had done so she immediately dismissed her retinue and asked me to walk with her. We strolled down the lakeside promenade where, I must admit, the sight of the mountains reflected in the lake was not an unpleasant one. Nor was Ms Opaka, who was a rather handsome woman and, intriguingly, seemed to be hanging on my every word. Bajoran women _do_ seem to find Cardassians compelling, in my experience, but I didn’t expect quite such a response from their religious leader. I asked her if it would cause her any inconvenience to be seen out with a Cardassian, and she assured me that she made her own rules on Bajor.

She took me to a small monastery, where with a devilish grin she revealed that the reflecting pool in the sun-dappled courtyard was in fact a hologram. As it vanished, a spiral staircase of stone appeared, descending down into a cavern below. She led me down below to a cavern below, where she showed me something she called the Orb of Prophecy and Change. _[And this is where the problem lies. I thought this entire section was more nonsense when I first read it. But when I spoke to Captain Sisko about this, he was shocked. Apparently this is an accurate and specific description of the location of that Orb, including details that the captain had never mentioned to anyone else. It's certain that the Cardassian government knew nothing of it, or they would have stolen it as they did the other Orbs. Garak_ must _have learned about that sanctuary from one of the extremely small number of Bajorans - and by “extremely small number” I mean a few dozen ranjens and vedeks, Kai Opaka, and Kai Winn - who knew of it. But how? And when? And, for that matter,_ why? _And as I mulled those questions, I began to ask myself… is it possible that this story_ ** _is_** _true, and that all the blatant falsehoods were there to camouflage the truth in a nest of lies? Now, perhaps, you begin to understand the problems presented by a patient like Mr Garak... —T]_

“Before I give you an Orb experience,” she said, putting her arms around my neck, “there’s another kind of experience I’d like to give you.” _[Okay, this part is back to messing with me. —T]_

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’ve heard stories of how the Resistance treats Bajoran women who ‘consort with the enemy,’ and I have no wish for such a fate to befall you.”

“You are as noble as the rest of your species,” she said, sighing as she traced her fingers delicately over the scales of my neck with a practiced motion. “I have no doubt that the Prophets will speak to you.”

With that, she opened the box, and I caught a glimpse of a hourglass of green light before I found myself sitting cross-legged on the ground in a secluded bower. At this altitude, the heat of the air had dissipated quickly with the fall of night, leaving me chilly in my student’s robes but making the sky so clear that I could count the Taluvian stars pulsing out their unmistakable heartbeat in the sky, with two half-moons - one bright, one dim - pouring orange light down upon me. I knew at once where I was, of course. And I knew someone was approaching, though her footsteps were so delicate on the firm-packed ground as to be inaudible. I knew, too, that in a moment she would greet me with a poem - some politically questionable work of Maran Bry, most likely - just as she allowed one soft hand to fall upon my shoulder, just near enough to the tender scales of my neck to make me shiver.

She touched me then, one final time, and as she gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze I felt her hot breath on my ear as she whispered:

> _Blind moon, lonely follower, ripe leya,_  
>  _On what ancient night_  
>  _did you stand alone above us_  
>  _in silent judgement of our crimes?_

“Hello again,” I said softly, unable to look up at her. “It’s been a long time.”

She laughed. “It’s been a day, Elim.”

“Was this the night, then?” I asked. “The night you chose, once and for all, that you would betray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very attentive readers may have noticed that the post-DS9 novel A Stitch in Time, written by Andrew Robinson (the actor who played Garak), is the basis for that final scene, but that it was explicitly contradicted in the previous interview at least once, when Garak indicated he'd used a sexual relationship to entrap Gul Dukat's father. I'm borrowing from A Stitch in Time (the only Trek novel I've read, incidentally) here and there where it provides for some interesting backstory hooks, but am also feeling free to ignore it whenever I want. Of course, the wonderful thing about Garak is that... it's _all_ true.


	5. Chapter 5

And there, at the moment when your attention is gripped by the suspense, in the middle of a decisive sentence, you find your screen overtaken by an expanse of blankness. Did Garak end his story like _that_ , without so much as a final quotation mark? Did Telnorri really have _no_ additional commentary to add to the unexpected drama of that final scene? You check the file metadata: 2,470 words. You check the document itself: 1,315 words. Not only did Memory Alpha give you the wrong file yet again, but they then robbed you of almost half the length of whatever file _this_ one was!

 _Who_ was the woman in that final scene? Who did she betray? Garak? Cardassia? Could it _possibly_ be true that an agent of the Obsidian Order was given an Orb experience by the Kai herself during the Occupation, or was that just an excuse to tell Telnorri this story about the woman - or was _all_ of it just an excuse to confuse and annoy his poor court-appointed counselor, without a single grain of truth to be found anywhere within it?

Perhaps it would help to know where the last scene was set. You look up “the Taluvian stars”; ah, the Cardassian name for an unusual stellar formation prominently visible near Cardassia Prime’s celestial south pole. Cardassia Prime also has three moons, and the name of the dimmest translates to “Blind Moon”, so called because it seems to always follow one of the other moons through the sky. So this is a story from Garak’s life on his homeworld. But you can do better than that; are you an intelligence analyst or not? You ask the computer for all known educational institutions at altitude in the southern hemisphere of Cardassia Prime that were active in the past fifty years… ah, the Bamarren Institute for State Intelligence!

You are impatient to get in touch with the Other Analyst, to ask her if her copy of the file is like yours, and to tell her your conjectures, the information you have gathered… You look in your comm logs for the contact details Information Services gave you, and you activate your holocommunicator. You take a deep breath and begin your rehearsed speech before pressing the button, and launch into it the moment she picks up:

“Hello, Lieutenant Lumila. We haven’t yet met, but I understand you were looking for…”

But as the image resolves, you realize you’re not looking at Lumila, but at some other bored-looking Andorian. His voice is hard, and a bit bored. “I’m not Lumila. I’m her coworker, Lotar. Lumila is out. What is it?”

You feel yourself flush with embarrassment. “I just wanted to talk to her about a file, G24282… it’s not important, I’ll try again later.”

“A file? What kind of file?”

“Well, it’s an archive document about a Cardassian operative from the Dominion War era… Information Services told me she’d requested it too. I thought we might exchange some impressions.”

“Cardassian? What suborder?”

“He was a defector, actually, though as yet I’m not completely sure why…”

But Lotar’s eyes are already glazing over. As you continue the awkward conversation it becomes clear that Lotar wants only to place Garak’s position within the framework of the Apparatus of State, because he views individuals as interchangeable cogs, ants unthinkingly performing the collective intelligence of the hive. As soon as Garak came to exist outside the structure of the Obsidian Order, he became a meaningless outlier and Lotar lost all interest. You can tell at once that this was the sort who liked looking at maps of battles with big colorful arrows on them showing the troop movements. Surely Lumila couldn’t think the same way as this boorish fellow, could she? Why would she have requested Garak’s file if she had no interest in the psychology of individuals?

You try to figure out how to escape the conversation as Lotar peppers you with questions you couldn’t possibly find less interesting. “When he _was_ in the Order, what cell was he with? What was his code name, his rank? Which faction did he align with politically, the Tainites or the Lokites?”

The conversation is as empty as the latter half of file G24282. “I couldn’t say, exactly. You see, I haven’t even managed to read a single full document of his file all the way through yet. Lumila will tell you all about it; it’s a very complicated story.”

“Lumila reads files on individual operatives all day, but she never contextualizes them into the broader political structures. It seems like a waste of time to me. Don’t you think?”

If you start arguing, you’ll never get away. Now he’s sending you his unpublished manuscript on the comparative structures of the Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar circa 2370.

“Did you collaborate with Lumila on this?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to her.

No, it seems Lumila takes no part in her coworker’s research, which makes it all the more baffling that he managed to write 147,000 words on the pre-war Order without ever having heard the name “Elim Garak”. It’s almost impressive. And now he’s pressing you to provide your thoughts on his manuscript.

Unfortunately, you aren’t great at boundaries. “It’s not really my area of expertise… and I’ve got this report to write… but I’ll try and read it if I can find the time. I can’t promise. Meanwhile, will you please tell Lieutenant Lumila I tried to contact her? Or, better yet, I can just try back.” There you go, now get off the comm before he sends you any more books.

But Lotar detains you. “There’s really no point. This isn’t really Lumila’s office, it’s mine. She has a desk here but she never uses it, she only ever shows up to grab the next file and log her reports. Our commander lets her get away with leaving her communicator off because she always gets her work in on time, so I take messages for her.”

Another cruel shock. First the file that seemed so promising broke off, and now this person who you let yourself hope might become a friend can only be reached via this insufferable Lotar…

“Ah, I see. Sorry.”

“Hello? Are you the other analyst who requested file G24282?” The voice has come from somewhere outside the holocommunicator’s camera cone - _her_ voice, you know at once, though this is the first you’re hearing it. The communicator reinitializes and her face appears. “Yes, this is Lumila. I was just speaking to Information Services about G24282 and they told me that the other person who had requested it might try to call me, so I came back to the office. My copy goes blank halfway through, does yours?”

“Yes!” you say, too excited and flustered even to introduce yourself. You had an opening planned for this conversation and now it’s been derailed already.

“I might have expected as much. Another trap. I started with G21329, or what I thought was G21329…”

“The initial interview with Lieutenant T’Panok?”

“Ah, you too? And once again, just when I was getting into it, nothing. I’d thought it was going nowhere, all that nonsense about Kai Opaka flirting with him giving me no insight other than that he enjoyed annoying his therapist, and then, out of nowhere, that beautiful scene in the bower…”

You are so happy you can’t utter a word. You can barely squeak out: “Bamarren.”

“What?”

“Yes, it’s the Bamarren Institute! He must have been a student there. I would like to know what happened between him and whoever that woman was… assuming any of it actually happened at all… is this really the kind of analysis you enjoy?”

A pause. She runs a finger thoughtfully over her left antenna. “Yes, it is. I find it fascinating, trying to discern a man’s character from his lies.”

“Ah!” Your voice turns warm, winning, insistent. “Lieutenant, listen, we really must collaborate on this, I’m sure we’ll have better luck together. Where are you stationed? Could we meet? I’m on Luna, in Tycho City.”

“Well then, I was just looking up at you on my way in - I’m in the Chengdu office. But I think we could do better than just meet up - while you were looking up the Bamarren Institute, I was looking up Lieutenant Commander T’Panok, and she’s here on Earth too. She teaches exopsychology at the University of Siena.”

* * *

And now here you are, stepping off the busy public transport pad and finding yourself standing in a wide and open brick piazza, in the shade of a large tower. You’d never visited Siena before; it is a small and ancient city, restored and reduced in size centuries ago down to its historic central core. For you, more familiar with the glittering crystal towers of San Francisco, Paris, and Mumbai, it is strange to see this glimpse a thousand years into Humanity’s past, when you were still a barbaric child species living in a society of inequality and unjust hierarchy, yet still knew how to create beauty. You wonder idly if Lumila will, when she arrives, see anything here in this medieval brick and marble that will shape her analysis of you…

But come on, keep moving, you’re blocking the exit to the pad! Don’t go acting like such a tourist or you’ll give lunar schooners a bad name. Too crowded to wait for Lumila here, and in any case you told her you’d meet up at T’Panok’s office. You tap your communicator and ask for directions, and the reliable voice in your ear directs you to the left, up a narrow stone street. A storefront offers you the opportunity to try traditional handmade gelato - but no, stop looking! You have an appointment! You’ll come back this way later. Perhaps Lumila will walk back to the transport pad with you and you could get some gelato, or sit for a moment in one of the little bars and cafés that litter the streets to talk about your findings. (Hopefully it’s not too hot for her? But then again, it’s cooler here than in Chengdu. Andorians are remarkably adaptable.)

The university buildings are scattered throughout the town, but fortunately the one you’re looking for is just to the right down this street; not a long walk at all. The building is an old medieval palace on the outside and a rabbit warren on the inside, but with your communicator’s guidance you navigate through to the psychology department and, ultimately, to a door with a small sign that says “T’PANOK” in the Vulcan and Latin scripts. The door is half-open, and inside you see a small olive-skinned woman sitting at the desk, staring intently at her monitor. Unusually for a Vulcan, she wears her dark hair to shoulder-length.

“Excuse me,” you say.

She looks up at you. Now, seen full-on, you can see that her hair is asymmetrical; only the left side is worn long, and the right side is shorn close, revealing a tangled scar beneath the dark fuzz. It’s a very typical haircut for a fashionable Human college student; not so much for a Vulcan ex-intelligence officer.

“Are you Commander T’Panok?” you ask.

“I’m Professor T’Panok,” she said, gesturing to a chair in front of her. “What do you want?”

“Excuse me, it was about some information… Lieutenant Lumila contacted you - is Lieutenant Lumila here?”

“There is no Lieutenant Lumila here,” she said. “Why are you looking for her in my office?”

“We were supposed to come together…” you say, to make everything clear.

“Then why isn’t she with you?” T’Panok asks, logically enough.

“She’ll be here soon,” you manage. “I was - or rather _we_ were - well, we had an appointment to speak to you about Elim Garak.”

She sits back in her chair. “An appointment. Of course. You will forgive me. I received a serious head injury during the recapture of Betazed, and although my logic is unaffected I experience occasional lapses in memory as a result.”

“Is that why you resigned?”

“No. I resigned four years ago in protest of the decision to cease aiding Romulan refugees. My superiors were, however, all too happy to blame my decade-old head injury rather than confront their guilt at not joining me. Incidentally, I have no interest in assisting you with processing your own guilt, so please do that on your own time. Did you say Elim Garak?”

“Yes.”

“A genuinely fascinating man,” she says. “Extraordinarily dangerous, of course. And approximately as reliable as a Ferengi promise. But from a psychological standpoint… in any case, I’m afraid that my clearance and access to the Intelligence network, including my own personal logs, was permanently revoked due to my political activities after my resignation. Between that and my memory issues, I am unsure how helpful I will be - but if I can help you, I will.”

“Well, in particular, we were hoping you could tell us more about file G24282.”

She arches a brow. “Perhaps another Vulcan might remember the details of a file they hadn’t seen in 15 years based on its reference number, but, at the risk of repeating myself…”

“Of course, sorry,” you say. “The part we were really interested in was when Garak was describing his time at the Bamarren Institute. He was meeting a woman - we don’t know who - at night in a bower, the Taluvian stars were overhead, the Blind Moon was in the sky, they were reciting Maran Bry poetry…”

“Ah yes,” she says, cutting you off. “ _That_ one I remember. And better yet, I believe it’s old enough that it should have been declassified by now, so I can even look it up for you.”

After just a few moments of searching, she pulls up what you hope is file G24282 on her monitor and begins reading aloud to you. One thing is immediately clear: this has nothing at all to do with file G24282. Some of the opening covers familiar ground, but you don’t have time to think about that right now, because despite her emotionless delivery, the story T’Panok is relating turns out to be fascinating enough in its own right.


	6. File S419234

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 46387.5. The Enterprise remains at what has now been officially renamed Deep Space Nine, awaiting the arrival of Commander Sisko. While assessing damage on the station’s Promenade, my former crewman, Miles O’Brien, was given the following message to deliver to me personally by the only Cardassian still aboard the station, one Mr Garak, who I am informed operates a small tailor’s shop. Although the message contained minimal actionable information, for personal reasons I am forwarding it on to Starfleet Intelligence to determine whether it is reliable. If Mr Garak’s account is trustworthy, it might help me make sense of a painful event from my own past - or, rather, from one of my pasts.
> 
> More importantly, his message, coming as it does less than a month after what the good counselor insists on reminding me was a very traumatic experience at the hands of the Cardassian Empire, feels like a vital reminder that even the most brutal nation is not populated solely by men like Gul Madred, but also by a great mass of people like Mr Garak. The day will come when the Garaks of Cardassia will speak, and the Madreds will be silent, and the Federation must be ready for that day.

Dear Captain Picard,

First and foremost, I must apologize for the impertinence of sending you this message. I am doing so because the arrival of the _Enterprise_ reminded me of a duty I took on 20 years ago, and I knew that, given the ongoing tension between our great nations, it might well be another 20 years before my next opportunity to fulfill the last sad part of that duty came to pass.

My name is Garak, proprietor of Garak’s Clothiers. I would invite you to stop in for a visit, a cup of tea, and perhaps even a new suit, but unfortunately some of my erstwhile countrymen felt that my shop, and indeed all the others on the Promenade, needed a new look to celebrate the transition to Bajoran governance. I’m afraid the Cardassian military academy offers _very_ limited instruction in interior decorating, and it will be a few days before my shop is ready for company, by which time I understand you will have already departed. Nonetheless, the offer stands if ever you find yourself in this sector again.

At this point you are probably wondering why a Cardassian tailor you’ve never met would be writing a letter to you. The short version is that we share an acquaintance in Natasha Yar. However, I’m afraid explaining how and why will require you to endure the long version, so I would ask your patience and your forbearance as I relate how I came to know your former officer.

I didn’t plan to become a tailor. In fact, I studied to become a botanist. I spent many nights lying in a quiet little bower of jessacanta flowers at the science academy, staring up at the steady pulse of the Taluvian constellation and the Blind Moon following carefully in the footsteps of its elder siblings, and reciting mildly seditious Maran Bry poems back and forth with a very dear friend. And then, to everyone’s misfortune, my friend recited Bry's particularly inflammatory "Paean to Kunderah" to the wrong person - and, to cut a sad story short, I was asked to leave the academy with two thirds of a botany degree. Underage and cut off by my family - I’m not sure if you know how cruel a thing that is for a Cardassian, but family, to us, is second in importance only to our duty to the State - I found what work I could as a gardener in Cardassia City. I will modestly say that I was quite skilled. In particular, I had a way with Edosian orchids, a rare and glorious bloom which requires great coaxing to thrive in the harsh climate of the City.

One day, a client of mine - a large and intimidating man with an extremely fine estate, the sort of man whose precise occupation even the most callow young Cardassian knows not to ask - introduced me to a Romulan delegation that was touring the City. One of them, an amateur horticulturist, had seen my orchids and was astonished that they could be brought to thrive in such a dry environment. Before I knew it, I had been given a post on the garden staff of the Cardassian Embassy on Romulus and was instructed to give important Romulan guests regular demonstrations of my skills in orchiculture. When I told my client that I couldn’t legally travel because I wasn’t yet of the age of full maturity (I was just shy of 40 - I believe that’s about 22 terrestrial years old) and my father was unable to vouch for me, he told me that he was my father now. I can only imagine what my service bought for the Cardassian Empire, but it must have been valuable and, as I said, a Cardassian’s first duty is to the State, and I was aboard a ship by the end of the next day.

I served the Empire well, in my own way; I certainly impressed my fair share of Romulan senators and generals - even Proconsul Merrok himself, an avid gardener, came to see my work shortly before his untimely death. And so it went until one day a general came with his young daughter and his consort - his _Human_ consort. The general spoke quite bombastically of the beauty and magnificence of my orchids - the kind of show that powerful men make when they know they should appreciate something but don’t know why - but the Human woman just stared, quietly, as if they were transporting her to another place. Then the child crushed an orchid in her fist and laughed, and her father laughed with her, but - though she said nothing - I saw the agony in that woman’s eyes on witnessing the destruction of a thing of beauty, and in that moment I knew for certain that she was a captive.

The woman was permitted to walk the city alone, or rather with a pair of bored centurions who trailed her at a not-quite-respectful distance, and she returned again the next day, and the day after that. We didn’t speak - there seemed to be little for us to say, at least not within the earshot of the centurions - but she watched me with great interest as I went about my business caring for the orchids.

No, I’m wrong: she did speak, once, on perhaps her third or fourth visit. A non sequitur: “I had a cat once.” Then silence. I know little of terrestrial cats, but perhaps something about the orchids reminded her of them.

After eighteen days of silent visits, there came a day when the centurions didn’t accompany her, but still we didn’t speak. It was the sixth day without the centurions that she told me her name, the ninth day that she told me her story, and the eleventh that I told her that I had spoken to the Lissepian freighter captain who supplied the embassy and that she had agreed to transport Ms Yar and her daughter out to neutral space.

It was an expensive offer on my part, and a risky one, but I’d been given a very healthy stipend on top of room and board, and I can’t imagine anyone (especially not a starry-eyed adolescent who’d read too many Maran Bry poems) could have watched that woman stare at those orchids for 29 days in a row and not wanted something better for her. I seek no recompense or recognition - indeed, recognition in this matter would be _very_ bad for my health - and I hesitated to come forward. But she told me that you - or, I should say, the you that she had once known - had been like a father to her. I have never been a father, to my shame, but I know how much it would mean to me to give one final message to my own, even if it arrived a quarter century too late.

As you have probably surmised, she didn’t come that night. The Lissepian, to her credit, waited until Romulan traffic control was on the verge of cancelling her launch window. Tasha Yar never appeared to look at my orchids again, and I can only make assumptions as to her fate. My understanding is that Ms Yar’s daughter was found to be alive and in the service of the Romulan Empire last year. It was a subject of some discussion among the Cardassian officers who frequented my shop; they seemed to think that the illegitimate half-Human daughter of a time-displaced Federation officer rising to become a Romulan Fleet Commander spoke volumes about both cultures. I found I had little to add to these conversations.

I finished my tour of duty on Romulus and returned home, and found that I could no longer bring orchids to grow. My carefully honed methods had ceased to work as once they did. Fortunately, I had earned enough on Romulus - the Lissepian, astonishingly, only asked for half payment - to buy an apprenticeship with a tailor. A few years later, I renewed my acquaintance with my friend the Maran Bry aficionado… but that is another story entirely, one I will relate to you if ever you have the opportunity to take me up on my offer for that cup of tea.

My condolences on the loss of your officer, Captain.

E. Garak, tailor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd never done the math before writing this chapter, but Jean-Luc showed up at DS9 about _three weeks_ after being nearly broken by Gul Madred - and then the moment Sisko got there he was like "hey fucko, remember that _other_ time you were captured and tortured?" _Harsh._
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was hard to write mostly because it was hard to stop writing. I finished the whole thing and then was like, "wait, I forgot that the central conceit of this entire story is that the Reader never gets to finish a file." But I didn't really see how I could end this one on a cliffhanger either, since we (and the Reader) all know [how Tasha's story ends](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Sela). At last, I decided on what I hope is a solution, which will become more clear when the next chapter goes up.


	7. Chapter 7

When T’Panok reads Garak’s name at the end, you almost sigh aloud. At last, you’ve reached an actual ending!

“How curious,” T’Panok says. “I was quite certain there used to be more to this document.”

“More?” says a voice behind you. You turn and see Lumila standing there - has she been there the whole time?

“Yes,” T’Panok continues. “The final paragraph in particular contained an extended story regarding his poetry-appreciating friend. I have a distinct memory of a long and rather tangential digression regarding some kind of betrayal that occurred between them, though I’m afraid the details escape me.”

“Could this be related to your…” You trail off, feeling guilty for asking.

“Although my memory has gaps, I have had no experiences of _incorrect_ memories, and I vividly recall thinking how strange it was that he chose to share so much with Captain Picard, despite it being quite unrelated to the Tasha Yar incident. The file was declassified because it is twenty years old, but it is possible that part of the declassified file was redacted due to ongoing security concerns - though I cannot imagine what security concerns Mr Garak’s romantic history might present. With your clearance, you could access the full original on returning to your office; the reference is S419234.”

You and Lumila exchange a look. It seems she shares your doubts that asking Information Services for file S419234 will be any use.

* * *

You make your way back through the streets of Siena in silence. Now’s the time to say something! You’re almost back at the square now, where you’ll each say your slightly awkward goodbyes, say you’ll each let the other know if you find out anything new, and then - with your luck - never talk to each other again. Quick, here’s the gelateria! Now, ask if she’d like to get some while you’re here!

What? Nothing? No, honestly, it’s okay. Everyone chokes up sometimes. It’s not easy, making new friends as an adult. Hang on, is that your combadge chirping? You answer.

“It’s Lotar. Is Lumila with you?” (Her combadge is off, of course. How did she find her way to T’Panok’s office without it? She must have an excellent sense of direction.)

“Lotar?” And then a stroke of inspiration. “Lumila, why don’t we duck in here where we can talk more privately?”

The air inside the ice cream shop is blessedly cool, even for you, and you see Lumila’s skin, which had been drawn and pale in the Tuscan summer sun, flush to a happier bright blue as the cool air hits her. You’re feeling quite pleased with yourself for managing to suggest it - and you should be! Well done all around. But why is Lotar calling you, anyway?

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” you ask politely, as you move into a quieter corner of the shop.

“I thought Lumila would want to know that the subject she inquired about earlier just requested a recently declassified file.”

“Yes, we know,” Lumila said. “We asked her to.”

“Oh,” he says. “It’s just that she’s on a watchlist for people with possible ties to the Romulan Rebirth movement on Vashti, and the file concerned Romulan politics.”

“It’s really no big deal,” Lumila said. “The file was written by our subject, Garak, two decades ago. There’s no need to be concerned.”

“You don’t mind if I look into this file, do you? It’s possible there may be a broader political context.”

“Help yourself,” Lumila says with a shrug.

“The reference code is S419234,” you add helpfully. “But Memory Alpha is having issues. You may not receive the correct file.”

“Stay where you are,” Lotar says, though of course he doesn’t outrank you. “I’ll review the file and get back to you.”

This suits you well enough, and you and Lumila queue up for some gelato. She is unhurried as she orders, asking the friendly young server what might suit the Andorian palate, and then taking the time to learn to pronounce “stracciatella” properly. You awkwardly ask for a hazelnut, vaguely remembering that you’ve enjoyed that flavor in Italian-style desserts before. The server reminds you both to tell your friends, and Lumila beams at him and promises to do so as you find a table by the window. You sit and companionably eat your gelato, both of you watching the people out the window, and though you are once again silent, this is a _pleasant_ silence.

“Stracciatella,” Lumila murmurs to herself, as she licks the spoon clean with a dark blue tongue.

Inevitably, Lotar breaks the moment by calling back. “The requested file appears to be politically neutral,” he admits.

“Were you able to read the entire thing?” you ask. “Towards the end, when he reunited with his friend…”

“What friend?”

“The one who liked Maran Bry poems,” you say. “The one he met in the bower.”

“Ah, yes, I noted the allusion to a subversive movement,” he says. “But in the 2340s, the dissident movement in Cardassia was politically insignificant. I don’t think that it’s relevant.”

“Look,” you say, exasperated, “can you just send me the file, please?”

“It would be better if you came here,” he said. “That way, we can work as a team to better contextualize the work.”

You glance over at Lumila. She twitches her antennae in a rather succinct and uniquely Andorian gesture somewhere between an eye roll and a shrug.

“Okay,” you say. “We’re on our way.”

* * *

The transporter bounces you off a satellite and around a quarter of the world’s circumference to the bustle of yet another plaza, this one outside Chengdu’s central rail station. You are briefly dazzled by sensory information: the humid evening air still holding onto the heat of the day, a young teen blasting alba ra music to disapproving stares, the multicolored lights of the towering housing blocks, the civet-smell of a fruit stand offering fresh unreplicated durian barely drowned out by the vast beds of night-blooming royal lily at the plaza’s perimeter, the subtle throb of the vibrating earth as a train departs the station and its sonic boom is silenced by the shock dissipators along the track. You glance over at Lumila just in time to catch the rapt look on her face as she drinks the city in.

She sees you looking. “Italy was lovely,” she says, “but this is home.”

“Where to?” you ask, feeling oddly as though you’ve walked in on a private moment.

“This way,” she says. “Our office is in the Chenghua District. We could take the Dìtiě - it’s only one stop - or, since it’s such a pleasant night…”

“I’m happy to walk,” you say, and you are, and you’re even happier when that answer earns you a broad smile.

She sets off without hesitation and without a glance backwards, moving through the crowded plaza like a fish through water, while you do your best to keep close and stay in her wake. Fortunately the plaza is well-lit, and a tall blue-skinned woman in command red isn’t particularly hard to keep an eye on, so you manage to keep her in sight until the throng begins to thin out around the edges of the plaza. Now it’s just a matter of keeping up with her; her legs are much longer than yours and her stride is purposeful, and you have to follow at a gait that’s exactly the worst possible compromise between a walk and a run. It doesn’t help matters that you’ve been back home on the Moon too long - there the air is climate-controlled and perfectly calibrated for Human comfort, not like the wild night air of the Sichuan Basin, thick with humidity and flowers and spice, equal parts invigorating and exhausting.

She strides down a broad promenade between the largest bicycle highway you’ve ever seen - two unpowered and eight powered bike lanes in each direction - and the wall to one of the city’s famously innumerable parks, covered with explosive pink blooms of hollyhock and hibiscus, and as you follow you hope that perhaps she will stop to examine one of the street food vendors serving up Sichuan’s unfathomable variety of native dishes on elegant copper plates. But, of course, the two of you just had gelato a few minutes ago, and she remains untempted, leaving you to follow along as best you can manage.

You’re not that 15 year old reverse dive champion anymore. Too much time at your desk; not enough at the low-g pool. How long even _is_ this walk? One metro stop could mean fifteen minutes or forty-five, depending on the metro. Listen, don’t be a hero. Here, there’s a big square up ahead with plenty of benches, centered around that huge statue of some sort of piebald bear. (Ah, you can see the base of the statue now: a memorial to one of the native animal species that went extinct during the Post-Atomic Horror.) Go on, then, tell Lumila you’d like to rest. Better to sacrifice some pride than pull a muscle, or worse.

“I’m so sorry - I forgot sometimes how fast I walk!” she says. “Let’s pause a moment.”

“It’s mostly the air,” you explain, sitting down heavily on a bench. “I’ve lived on the Moon most of my life. I’m not used to the humidity.”

“Of course,” she says. “Tycho City isn’t exactly a subtropical climate.”

“Do you find it difficult?” you ask. “As an Andorian, I mean.”

“Not if you grow up here,” she says. “I sleep during the day, and Chengdu is high enough - but take me 15 minutes east to Chongqing in summertime and I’ll be in trouble.”

“Did Lotar grow up here too?”

“No,” she says. “He just complains all the time. Feeling better? I’ll walk more slowly, and we’re halfway there already.”

_Are_ you feeling better? Yes, probably. You nod, and the two of you set off again.

* * *

At last you come to a nondescript building overlooking a lake covered in lotus flowers; only a small aluminum Starfleet delta mounted next to the door gives its purpose away. A discreet body scanner confirms your identities and the door opens for you. Lumila leads you to an elevator and up to her eighth floor office.

Lotar is waiting for you there, looking impatient. “Did you _walk_ back from Italy?” he asks peevishly. “Never mind. While I was waiting, I took the liberty of annotating the classified version of the file to better describe the key political structures at play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Reader was on the [reverse diving](https://what-if.xkcd.com/124/) team in high school, but it's been a while.
> 
> If there's one thing I wish Trek had more of, it's Earth, and specifically Earth's cities. I would watch an entire series that was just Star Trek: Urban Planning Department. Picard gave us a taste, but, as usually, mostly just of SF. We do know, though, that San Francisco still has [some kind of underground mass transit system](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Trans_Francisco), and people are still [using trains](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Train), so I figured that implies that people aren't using transporters for short-distance travel. I imagine that people get around their own neighborhoods by foot or bicycle, get around town by metro or shuttle, get from city to city by incredibly-high-speed-rail, and get around the world by transporter. (Oh, and in reality, if you were going to make a supersonic train, you'd probably want it to be [inside a depressurized tube](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vactrain) to eliminate air resistance, but that wouldn't make a cool sonic boom.)


	8. File S419234 [annotated]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following document was found in the released personal logs of a generally mainstream Starfleet captain aligned primarily with the principles-first school, who later shifted toward the heterodox extreme of that school of thought as an admiral. The document was authenticated as having been written by a suspected undercover Obsidian Order operative posing as a civilian tailor. Further notes are provided throughout. - LT Lotar, Starfleet Intelligence

Dear Captain Picard,

First and foremost, I must apologize for the impertinence of sending you this message. I am doing so because the arrival of the _Enterprise_ reminded me of a duty I took on 20 years ago, and I knew that, given the ongoing tension between our great nations, it might well be another 20 years before my next opportunity to fulfill the last sad part of that duty came to pass. _[This letter was written in 2369, immediately after the end of the Occupation of Bajor, when the Federation and Cardassia were nominally at peace but openly hostile.]_

My name is Garak, proprietor of Garak’s Clothiers. I would invite you to stop in for a visit, a cup of tea, and perhaps even a new suit, but unfortunately some of my erstwhile countrymen felt that my shop, and indeed all the others on the Promenade, needed a new look to celebrate the transition to Bajoran governance. _[On leaving what is now Starbase 901, the Cardassian military looted and demolished most station facilities.]_ I’m afraid the Cardassian military academy offers _very_ limited instruction in interior decorating, and it will be a few days before my shop is ready for company, by which time I understand you will have already departed. Nonetheless, the offer stands if ever you find yourself in this sector again.

At this point you are probably wondering why a Cardassian tailor you’ve never met would be writing a letter to you. The short version is that we share an acquaintance in Stefan DeSeve. _[The operative here refers to a minor Federation defector to Romulus. This defection occurred in 2349, a tumultuous year at the height of the Federation-Cardassian border wars and a time when the Federation-Klingon peace talks had stalled, in part due to widespread civilian concern about an alliance with the Empire, given their record on sentient rights and their ongoing use of war crimes against Romulan targets.]_ However, I’m afraid explaining how and why will require you to endure the long version, so I would ask your patience and your forbearance as I relate how I came to know your former officer.

I didn’t plan to become a tailor. In fact, I studied to become a botanist. I spent many nights lying in a quiet little bower of jessacanta flowers at the science academy, staring up at the steady pulse of the Taluvian constellation and the Blind Moon following carefully in the footsteps of its elder siblings, and reciting mildly seditious Maran Bry poems back and forth with a very dear friend. And then, to everyone’s misfortune, my friend recited Bry's particularly inflammatory "Paean to Kunderah" to the wrong person - and, to cut a sad story short, I was asked to leave the academy with two thirds of a botany degree. _[Maran Bry was a Cardassian poet active in the 2320s, whose poems - particularly “Paean to Kunderah” - were central to the dissident movement which arose in the early days of the Occupation of Bajor. The Obsidian Order effectively eliminated the dissident movement as a factor in Cardassian politics by 2332.]_ Underage and cut off by my family - I’m not sure if you know how cruel a thing that is for a Cardassian, but family, to us, is second in importance only to our duty to the State - I found what work I could as a gardener in Cardassia City. I will modestly say that I was quite skilled. In particular, I had a way with Edosian orchids, a rare and glorious bloom which requires great coaxing to thrive in the harsh climate of the City.

One day, a client of mine - a large and intimidating man with an extremely fine estate, the sort of man whose precise occupation even the most callow young Cardassian knows not to ask - introduced me to a Romulan delegation that was touring the City. _[A technology exchange between the Cardassians and Romulans was a key goal of the then-ascendant Tainist faction of the Obsidian Order, who sought to gain access to cloaking technology.]_ One of them, an amateur horticulturist, had seen my orchids and was astonished that they could be brought to thrive in such a dry environment. Before I knew it, I had been given a post on the garden staff of the Cardassian Embassy on Romulus and was instructed to give important Romulan guests regular demonstrations of my skills in orchiculture. When I told my client that I couldn’t legally travel because I wasn’t yet of the age of full maturity (I was just shy of 40 - I believe that’s about 22 terrestrial years old) and my father was unable to vouch for me, he told me that he was my father now. _[This could be read as a metaphor for the young operative joining the Order as part of the Tainist faction, thus making the newly appointed Director Tain a “father” of sorts.]_ I can only imagine what my service bought for the Cardassian Empire, but it must have been valuable and, as I said, a Cardassian’s first duty is to the State, and I was aboard a ship by the end of the next day.

I served the Empire well, in my own way; I certainly impressed my fair share of Romulan senators and generals - even Proconsul Merrok himself, an avid gardener, came to see my work shortly before his untimely death. _[At this time Merrok was part of the isolationist Romulus Alone Party, who strongly opposed any new relationship with the Cardassians. As a Tainist, the operative would have seen Romulus Alone as an enemy, and it is unlikely he would unironically describe Merrok’s death as “untimely”.]_ And so it went until one day a general came with a fresh-faced young subcenturion - a _Human_ subcenturion. The general spoke quite bombastically of the beauty and magnificence of my orchids - the kind of show that powerful men make when they know they should appreciate something but don’t know why - as the Human hung on his every word. I saw in his eyes the zeal of the newly converted, and knew at once he was a defector. _[Virtually no Federation citizens have ever defected to the Cardassian Empire, so bringing the defector to visit the Cardassian Embassy may have been a power play by the Romulans - a boast that they didn’t need Cardassian technology to defeat the Federation.]_

I learned that the young subcenturion was a brand new arrival who had been granted liberty to travel the capital city until he could be debriefed by the Tal Shiar. I invited him to return to see my orchids again any time he liked, never expecting to see him again. To my surprise, he returned the next day, and the day after that. He seemed to enjoy watching me work, and, as he was the first Human I’d met, I found speaking with him fascinating. He spoke of you often, Captain, though he had served aboard the _Stargazer_ for only a few weeks before being injured in a clash with, I’m afraid, my own people. He didn’t blame you - nor Cardassia - but rather what he called the “unresolvable tension” between militarism and pacifism that led Starfleet to send a warship to confront the Cardassians but also led them to leave their shields down as a show of “good will”. _[The 2340s were a dangerous decade, and was a time of unusually strong tension between the “principles-first” and “preservation-first” schools of thought within Starfleet.]_

As the days went on, he continued to visit, but as the Tal Shiar debriefings began, his mood changed. My gentle inquiries revealed that he had not anticipated how unimpressed they would be by the paucity of information he’d had access to as a Starfleet ensign. On the ninth daily visit, he admitted to me that he’d had no idea what Romulus was really like, and had projected an imagined reality onto the Empire. _[The Romulus Alone Party had been in almost continuous control of the government since the Tomed Incident and had pursued a vigorously isolationist policy, making it easy for dissatisfied young Federation citizens to imagine them as something they were not.]_ And, on the eleventh day, I told him that I had spoken to the Lissepian freighter captain who supplied the embassy and that she had agreed to transport Subcenturion DeSeve out to neutral space.

It was an expensive offer on my part, and a risky one, but I’d been given a very healthy stipend on top of room and board, but I saw a kindred spirit in the young man. We were about the same age, and both of us had made a grave mistake that had changed the course of our lives. I had at least partially recovered from my mistake, and (starry-eyed adolescent who’d read too many Maran Bry poems that I was) I felt that he deserved the same chance.

He turned down the offer. As he saw it, there was nothing left for him back in the Federation except a stint in prison followed by life as a social pariah. “The Federation,” he said - and this has stuck with me ever since - “has no patience for those who turn their backs on paradise.” Instead, he would do his best to make a home for himself here on Romulus. He had realized by now that when the novelty of the political victory wore off, he would be assigned to a meaningless sinecure of a job and left to rot for the rest of his life, and he accepted that fate. _[Though the operative could not have known this, by the time of this letter the defector had in fact aligned with the Unificationist movement and would return to the Federation later that same year.]_

I finished my tour of duty on Romulus and returned home, and found to my surprise that I had grown tired of filling Cardassia City with orchids. Perhaps meeting the Subcenturion had made me reconsider the virtues of disguising a society’s flaws. Fortunately, I had earned enough on Romulus - the Lissepian, fortunately, had only asked a small bribe for her silence - to buy an apprenticeship with a tailor. A few years later, I renewed my acquaintance with my friend the Maran Bry aficionado… but that is another story entirely, one I will relate to you if ever you have the opportunity to take me up on my offer for that cup of tea.

I apologize for reopening what I’m sure is an old wound by bringing up the defection of someone who served under you, however briefly. But I thought you might appreciate knowing that, as disillusioned as he was with the Federation, he never spoke of you with anything but respect.

Your humble servant,

E. Garak, tailor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember [DeSeve](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/DeSeve), right? Did you know he arrived on Romulus the same year Tasha Yar tried to escape? I'm not suggesting those two things are at all connected, mind you. I'm just a plain, simple fanfic writer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break! I was posting every day there for a while, but right as the plot started to get more complicated, family issues threw me off schedule, and then... well, and then I binge-watched The Legend of Korra, which I think is a very reasonable excuse if ever there was one. I'll try to get back to dailyish updates - or at least three or four chapters a week, anyway.

“But… that’s _absurd!_ ” you protest. “How can Picard have received two copies of the same letter from the same person on the same day, almost identical except that one is about Tasha Yar and one is about Stefan DeSeve?”

“Who?” Lotar says. “Anyway, this is the definitive version. That other version the Romulan-sympathizer you spoke to read was a declassified document and may have been partially redacted.”

“Since when do we declassify a document by changing the content?” you ask. “And why would a forty year old story about Stefan DeSeve, a nobody who defected to an empire that no longer exists, need to be classified at all? And if this is the original document, why doesn’t it contain the passage T’Panok remembers?”

“I don’t see why any of that is relevant,” Lotar says. “The document gives us useful insights into the Cardassian-Romulan relationship at the close of the 2340s, but…”

* * *

It has become more clear to you why Lumila spends so little time in her office. But now, at least, you and Lumila have escaped and decamped to a nearby neighborhood teahouse, where you sit in bamboo chairs in a quiet little courtyard, waiting for the tea Lumila ordered for you to cool.

“To recapitulate: we first asked for file G21329, but were given file G24282. Except that when we asked for file G24282, it was different. Professor T’Panok read us file S419234, a letter to Picard in which Garak described meeting Tasha Yar on Romulus in 2349. Then Lotar showed us file S419234, a letter to Picard in which Garak described meeting _Stefan DeSeve_ on Romulus in 2349. And neither of those letters contained the passage that T’Panok remembered. The only thing we can do is go to the source of all this confusion.”

“Yes. It’s Memory Alpha that subjected us to these frustrations, so it’s Memory Alpha that owes us satisfaction. We must go and ask them.”

“Whether S419234 is about Yar or DeSeve?”

“First of all, ask about G21329, make them give us a complete copy, and also a complete copy of G24282 - or rather, copies of the files we began to read, thinking they had those titles - and then, if their real references are different, the archivists must tell us and explain the mystery, because this is certainly larger than an indexing failure in one server.”

“Then let’s go right now,” you say. “I have access to a runabout.”

“There’s no need for both of us to go,” she says. “You go and report back.”

You’re hurt. This search excites you in part because you’re doing it with someone. You were beginning to feel that the two of you were developing a real friendship, not just because of the gelato and the tea but because of your shared quest.

“Why don’t you want to come?”

“On principle.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a dividing line,” she says. “I am an analyst; I take in data, I dissect it down to its core truths, and I generate a report. My rules are strict: primary sources in, secondary sources out. Otherwise I would become Lotar, who lives in a world where primary sources must be interpreted to match the secondary sources. But an archive is a place where primary, secondary, and tertiary sources are all intermingled, tied up together in isolinear chips and bioneural circuitry. If I surround myself with other peoples’ opinions, how will I ever find truth?”

“What about me? I’m an analyst, too, and I’m no Lotar!”

“Decide for yourself,” she says. “I’m not saying my way is right. In fact, it’s almost certainly not, and from what I’ve seen you probably have a healthier relationship with data than I do.”

There’s no making her change her mind. You’ll carry out this expedition by yourself, and you’ll meet her back here at this teahouse in exactly 24 hours. (Wouldn’t it be easier if you could just say “I’ll call you when I’m back, please leave your communicator on”? But Lumila is who she is, and it seems that you’ll have to get used to it - if you’re lucky, at least.)

* * *

“You’ve come about your grant application? It’s on the committee’s docket - no, I’m getting that wrong, it’s been read, very interesting, of course, now I remember! Fascinating subject, we were so sorry to have to reject it, didn’t you receive our message? We’re very sorry to have to tell you, it’s all explained in the letter, I’m sure it’s waiting for you back home, the time just isn’t right, perhaps the Daystrom… ah, wait, you aren’t here about a grant application? Forgive me, you look just like… yes, of course I’m familiar with _On the Habits of Vermiforms_ , it’s a 3rd century CE text from the collection of the Guardians of Mak’ala, the digital version is in LCARS, you can access it from your… the original? You’d need a signed letter from - yes, a letter just like that, I see you came prepared, just head to the reading room and ask the librarian for… well, I’m sure it’s _somewhere_ , everything’s _somewhere_ , there are more than thirty-eight _billion_ original manuscripts on Memory Alpha, you’ll forgive us if we can’t find every single one right this moment, but I’m sure it’ll turn up. It’s not like it got eaten by worms… no, I’m sorry, a tasteless joke, I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s been a very long day, please accept my apologies.”

The speaker is a little Zakdorn man, shrunken and bent, who seems to shrink and bend more and more every time anyone calls him, tugs at his sleeve, presents a problem to him, hands him another PADD even though he’s already carrying a stack of them. “Mr Kavdan!” “Look, Mr Kavdan!” “We’ll ask Mr Kavdan!” And every time, he concentrates on the query of the latest interlocutor, his eyes staring, his cheeks quivering, his neck twisting in the effort to keep pending and in plain view all the other unresolved queries, with the mournful patience of overnervous people and the ultrasonic nervousness of overpatient people.

When you first beamed down to the great library planet of the Federation, after passing through the alarmingly intense decontamination cycle and waiting in the long, winding queue to ask your question at the central desk, you were sent from one department to another until at last, after you don’t even know how many hours, you wound up here, four kilometers beneath the planet’s surface in Mr Kavdan’s nameless department. Perhaps every great bureaucracy has a Mr Kavdan - the person to whom every sufficiently challenging question eventually falls, who knows where everything is, who quietly ensures that the entire organization doesn’t fall down around their ears. If any enemy ever truly wanted to bring the Federation to their knees, their best bet would be to find the smallest, messiest, most chaotic office in Starfleet Headquarters and assassinate whatever beleaguered mid-level civil servant or NCO they found there. The Federation would collapse within the week, as soon as it became clear that one person was the only one who knew how to empty the waste extraction system.

You are hardly the only one here, and from the resigned look of Mr Kavdan’s face it doesn’t seem that the size of the crowd besieging him is due to the failure of Archive Server 1XJ15, but is in fact a perfectly normal Thursday afternoon. You try to get close but all around you people are jostling forwards bearing a newly adjusted schedule for the cataloguing of Kurlan Fifth Dynasty texts, or a report on servers overdue for defragmentation, or a list of Axanar works of poetry that needed to be reformatted due to the recent change in the Federation’s official Axanareq transliteration schema. He listens to everyone, though always tormented by the thought of having broken off the conversation with a previous postulant, and as soon as he can he tries to appease the more impatient, assuring them he hasn’t forgotten them, he is keeping their problem in mind.

“I’m trying to learn about Elim Garak!” you say desperately, taking advantage of a half-second’s lull to try and get his attention.

To your surprise, you succeed, and he takes you by the arm and disappears with you through a door and into a warren of hallways, shouting promises back over his shoulder to those still waiting.

“I don’t meet many people nowadays asking about Elim Garak,” he says. “Fifteen years ago, the Garak file was the talk of Starfleet Intelligence, but now I suppose he’s yesterday’s news. That’s why it made sense at the time, you see…”

“What made sense?”

“A few months ago I was asked to reindex that file,” he explains. “It was a disaster. How do you add cross-references between stories that all contradict each other? I realized right away I was out of my depth. That’s why it seemed like the perfect job for Marana.”

“Marana?”

“Ermok Marana,” he says. “A Ferengi, which, yes, maybe should have been reason enough to hesitate, but she was a female, a refugee from the Economic Civil War who’d been enslaved by the Orions to work in their archives until she was freed by the Daughters of the River - at least, that’s what she said - and she didn’t want payment, just a letter of recommendation for a permanent position, and I figured, well, what harm could it do to give her a chance?”

“Are you saying that she intentionally damaged the Garak intelligence file for some reason?”

“Damaged?” he says. “No. ‘Damage’ implies it can be fixed. It’s not like I can simply authenticate each document one at a time. How do you fix a file when the problem is telling the _old_ lies apart from the _new_ lies, and all the lies are true?”

He stops short; the two of you are staring at a wall of raw bedrock. Your apparently random perambulations through the library’s underground tunnels have reached a dead end. Mr Kavdan is silent a second, then without a word he turns on his heel and walks off back the way he came.

“And that’s why I can never seem to get a file that doesn’t cut out partway through?” you ask, hurrying to catch up.

“No, no,” he says, “Marana’s files are all _complete_ , they’re just _wrong_. (No, I shouldn’t say that; for all I know hers are the ones that are correct. You see my problem?) But the information retrieval problems really are because of Archive Server 1XJ15, and as much as I’d like to blame her for that, I can’t find any reason to do so.”

“Then, do you have _any_ complete document in the Garak file available?” you ask. “I don’t even care about the provenance. An original, a Marana, _anything_ , so long as it’s complete.”

“Hm? Yes, yes, of course.” He grabs one of several PADDs, seemingly at random, off a desk which has been incongruously left in the hallway and glances at it. “Here, this is one of them. File R27BS6. Is it really file R27BS6? Don’t ask me. You can read it right here, for all I care, just put the PADD back on the desk when you’re done. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find a two thousand year old book written on tree bark in a cave by a bunch of Trill monks which has somehow eluded every cataloguing robot on this planet.”

As Mr Kavdan stalks back along the hallway, you sit down on the floor behind the desk - there is no chair - and begin to read.


	10. File R27BS6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Counselor’s log, Stardate 59169.7. The Titan is scheduled to depart Cardassia Prime tomorrow morning. On the whole, the crew has adapted well to the visit, despite my concerns about some of those who endured extreme traumatic experiences during the war, perhaps most notably Crewman Reese. The service at the Lakarian City Memorial was… powerful, to say the least, but I didn’t sense any emotions not appropriate for the moment.
> 
> In fact, the person whose reactions have most concerned me isn’t one of my crew and was 70,000 light years away during the war. Our liaison from the Borg Special Task Force has been largely absent ever since our meeting with Councilor Ghemor two days ago. This morning, she gave Will the attached letter, asking that it be forwarded on to Admiral Janeway; I was able to convince her to wait a few days before making any final decisions. I barely know Seven of Nine, but I know that handing such a frankly emotional letter, unencrypted, to a near-stranger is not a sign of a healthy state of mind.

I did not know how to begin this letter. I found it hard to decide matters as small as “Dear Admiral” versus “Dear Kathryn”. This is in theory a formal resignation letter, and yet it is also a deeply personal letter, because I owe you that much.

I doubt you will be particularly surprised to receive this, even though I’m surprised to be sending it. Indeed, I think you’ve known this was coming ever since I broke off the engagement (which you _also_ saw coming long before I did). You always did seem to know my mind better than I do - which, I might point out, is a deeply frustrating trait. I’m proud of the work we’ve done together in the BSTF, and when the Borg return to the Alpha Quadrant, as we both know they will, I will be ready to assist Starfleet in any way I can. But I can’t come back to Luna, and I can’t continue as your scientific advisor.

This has, of course, been brewing for some time. But the proximate cause was a most unexpected one. I met someone here on Cardassia who has… changed my perspective, suffice it to say. As a result, I’ve decided to join an anarchist community on Fenris. My wide breadth of knowledge and skills will be invaluable to them, and will offer me an opportunity to put my labor towards the immediate benefit of… well, the collective, I suppose. I think that’s what I’ve really been looking for these past two years.

I’ve been reading about the Free Fenris experiment for months, but I’d never seriously considered going there when I arrived on Cardassia. I was planning to simply brief their government on the Borg threat and then head home. But then Councilor Ghemor introduced me to a friend of his named Garak, the only Cardassian survivor of the Damar resistance cell, who he called his “unofficial minister for both asymmetric warfare and asymmetric necklines”.

We discussed both. First around a conference table, and then later over tea. He is a tailor by trade, and when I related that the Doctor had recommended that I was ready to transition away from my dermaplastic compression garments, he insisted on drawing up some designs for me while we talked. I was resistant at first, but when he handed me a quick sketch of me in a simple knit sweater paired with a leather jacket… Kathryn, I cried, and I couldn’t stop, and I didn’t know why.

And then I realized: it was a picture of what I would look like if I were free.

(He’s making me the jacket. I hope you like it.)

We talked about Free Fenris. It turns out he knows a thing or two about unjust hierarchies. One of his partners, a Dr Parmak, has, along with Councilor Ghemor, been trying for years to get him to stand for office - but he refuses to ever work directly for a government again. He says he is only interested in working for _people_. I didn’t really think that anyone who wasn’t ex-Borg could understand why I found the idea of Fenris so exciting, but when he told me his story I realized that maybe mine isn’t as unique as I like to think.

After our tea, he took me to an ancient Cardassian religious ceremony, only recently decriminalized after a century. I may have been one of the first aliens to attend one of these services in living memory. The ceremony is built around the idea of becoming divine by first donning and then shedding a mask. I can see why it speaks to him.

_[“Hey!”]_

From there, we returned to his home, where

_[“You, behind the desk!”]_


End file.
